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2 us wandering over the fresh meadows, gathering the early violets. We worked together in the harvest-field under the summer sun, and went off nutting when the brown leaves told us of the approach ing autumn. And then came the time when we were both old enough to marry. We had neither of us dreamed of such a thing, and could not be persuaded that we were not still children. We were quite happy enough without troubling our heads about marriage. “However, others thought of it for us, ) and good Father Hermann began to be anxious that we should make up our minds. “But the matter was not so easily settled, j and several obstacles soon presented them selves. To begin with, Marie’s mother was rich. I was far from it, and an or phan into the bargain. I bad been brought up by my brother Victoire—a splendid fellow. It was he who went with Father Hermann to Marie’s mother, in order boldly to talk over our mar riage, which they were all so anxious about. “ ‘I had always made up my mind that Marie should never marry any one who had not quite as much as herself,’ replied she, ‘ and that was her dear father’s wish. However, I am sure you speak truly when you say that they both love one another very dearly. Let it be as you say.’ “ The old lady bad a kind warm heart. [As he said these last words, Pierre’s voice thickened, and I noticed a tear trick ling down his honest brown face. But my sailor was a brave fellow, and I bad hardly time to shake him warmly bv the hand before he had quite mastered his grief, and was able to go on with bis story] “Marie and I were not the only happy ones then, I can assure you. Victoire, my brother, Father Hermann, the whole village in fact, for we were both very popular, rejoiced with us. It was the week before the marriage. Os course, 1 had not gone to sea. Victoire was also very anxious to remain ; however, his wife persuaded him to go. Several in the village found fault with her for doing so, on the pretext that working at a festal time was very bad luck ; but they had no right to say so. Victoire’s children were very young, and had to be provided for ; and so Victoire went. In the even ing great black clouds darkened the sky. We were evidently threatened with a dreadful storm. But we were enjoying ourselves too much to think of storms or friends at sea. All at onee there was a vivid flash of lightning, and then a peal of thunder, which seemed to shake every cottage to its foundation. And then came piercing cries : ‘ A boat in distress, and threatened with instant destruction ” “It was Victoire’s boat! “1 was on the shore in an instant. What an awful storm ! Never in my whole life had I seen its equal. “All that was in a man’s power I did. you may he quite sure. Three times I dashed madly into the waves, only to be thrown back by the fury of the sea. The last time 1 was all hut lost myself. How ever, 1 was rescued and brought back to the shore, bruised and insensible. Some thought me dead. Would that I had been, and laid out side hv side with that other body stretched lifeless on the rocks ! “It was Victoire ! “When I came to myself he was near me, quite still, and covered with blood ; hut with just enough breath left to whis per in my ear: “ ‘Pierre, my boy, be a brother to my wife, a lather to rny children. God bless you, hoy.’. “ ‘Victoire,” answered I, ‘ I swear it.’ “ And then he died without a murmur.” CHAPTER IV. “Os course you will guess, monsieur, that this awful affair was the means of putting off our marriage. Marie and 1 neither of us complained, hut consoled ourselves with the reflection that all would soon he well. I took up my position in my brother’s house, and warmly kissed my brother’s children, now mine. Alphon sine tried to show her gratitude as well as she could. And so six months slipped away, and the villagers began talking again about our marriage. 1 don’t know how it was, but I began to feel very un easy and nervous about the matter, and l did not so much as dare broach the subject either to Alphonsine or Marie’s mother. In a little time the latter began the subject herself. Pierre, sakl she, “ you have adopt ed your brothers children, have you not ?” J “ Yes, mother.” “ And his wile also ?” “Yes; I must take care care of his wife quit* as much as her children ?” “ You I ave quite made up your mind?” “ Perfectly.” “Am J to understand that you never mean to leave them ?” “ 1 swore 1 would not to my brother before he died.” Then there was a silence, and my heart beat very quick. “ Listen, Pierre,” said the old woman ; “don’t think that I wish to deprive the widow or the orphans of one morsel of the sustenance you intend to set aside for them. Even if I did, your good heart would hardly listen tome. But you must understand that I know Alphonsine. My daughter can never live with Alphonsine; and Alphonsine can never live with me. Never !” “This last word seemed to open an abyss before my very feet. I too knew Al phonsine. I too began now to under stand that either of these arrangements would be perfectly impracticable. “ Mother,” 1 began— “ I don’t wish to hinder your marriage,” - replied the old lady, very slowly ; “ I simply impose one condition. You must be quite aware that in this matter my will must be law.’’ “ Still I hesitated. “ It will he for you then to decide your own fate,” added she; “and my daugh ter's as well.” “I raised my head. Marie was there and our eyes met. I must break my oath or lose her forever. “It is absolute torture to recall those fearful moments. My head seemed to swim round, and when 1 tried to speak, there was something in my throat which nearly choked me. And still Marie looked at me ; and oh, how tenderly ! ‘ Pierre,” said the old lady again “you must answer; will you remain alone with Alphonsine, or will you come here alone ? Choose for yourself.” “I looked at Marie again, and was on the point of exclaiming, “ I must come here 1” hut the words again stuck in my throat, and my tongue refused to speak. And then I began to ease my conscience with the thought that I could still work for Victoire’s wife and children, and tried to think they would he equally happy, al though I was not always with them. But then I thought of that dreadful night, and the storm, and the pale face, and the whisper in my ear came buck again, and I fancied I heard my brother say, “ It was not that you promised me, my brother; it was not that!” “At last the hitter words rose to my mouth, and in a hollow voice 1 answered: “I must keep my oath !” And then, like a drunken man, I fell prostrate on the floor. “When I recovered she was near me still, and her sweet voice whispered in my ear, “ Thank God, Pierre, you are an honest man !” “Those words were my only comfort in the long dreary } car which followed that fearful day. I was never myself again. I tried to rouse myself up, and take some interest in my daily work, and did my best to appear cheerful and contented at home, hut I was not the same man that I used to be. The children were a great comfort to me when 1 was at home ; but the long hopeless days and the dark dreary nights were miserable enough, God knows, I seemed to dream away my life. “1 thought it best to keep away from Marie, as a meeting would he painful to both. And so we never met. “At last a report got about the village that Marie was going to he married. “J could no longer keep away from her now, and she, too, appeared anxious that we should meet. In a very few days we were once more side bv side. “There was no need for me to speak. She read my question in my eyes : of her own accord she answered : “Yes, Pierre, it is quite true/’ “ But, Pierr,e” added she in tears, “ I am yours, and must be yours forever. Unless I can get you to say, marry Jacques, I will remain single all my life. But my mother begs me to get married ; and what can Ido ? She is very old, and very ill just now. 1 feel I too have got a dutv to fulfil.” 1 uttered a cry of despair. “ Pierre,” said Marie, still weeping, “ vou must know how dearly I loved you. My fate is that I must love you still. But, for all that, Pierre, I cannot let iny mother die.” “i could not bear to bear ber weep ; but what comfort could I give ? At last, the devil entered into my heart, and I broke forth in bitter curses at my fate, and what I chose to call her inconstancy. “ I don't deserve this,” said Marie very softly; “and I hardly expected that 1 should ever hear these words from your lips. Still, I believe you, after all. 1 hope you will feel, when yon think over all that has passed, that I am not heart less, and that I deserve some answer to the question which my lips almost refuse to ask. You will give me answer, I am sure, by-and-by;” “And then she left me, half-mad as I was, lying coiled up in a heap at the road side. During the next few days I did reflect. If 1 could not marry Marie myself, had I Mflflsi ©s urns mmm, aDy r right to hinder her marriage with another? Was I justified in preparing for her a life of solitude, and in depriving her of a mother’s care ? And then, again, I began to perceive that no one was at all inclined to take my part in the village. My popularity was fast declining, since no one could look into my heart or could have the least idea what I had suffered, or knew what had actually taken place. I was pitied, blit considered very selfish. I was continually told that Marie’s mother was ailing sadly, and that she had de served better treatment at my hands. “At last Father Hermann comforted me, and henefitting by his good advice and by the help of our holy religion, I began to be in a better frame of mind. I made up my mind to give Marie her freedom. But 1 could not bear to see her again, and so 1 wrote. CHATTER V. The marriage between Jacques and Marie was soon arranged, and soon the second festal day came round. In the morning I put out to sea as usual; but as the evening wore on, I found I was under the influence of a spell, and that it was quite impossible for me to remain where I was. According ly I returned ; and, led on by the spell, and attracted like a moth to the candle, wended my way to the rejoicings, in order that l might torture myself for the last time. I have heard of the agonies of the rack, of the thumb-screw, of saints being boiled in oil and crucified, and many other dreadful horrors ; hut I very much doubt if any martyr ever suffered the agony that I did that night. It was in the dusk of the evening, and Marie was just finishing a song, while all were resting from the dances which had followed one another in quick suc cession. She was just singing the last verse, in which my name was accidental ly introduced, when a sailor who was just behind me struck a match in order to light his pipe. The light exposed me to the view of the whole company. Direct ly Marie saw me she uttered a piercing cry and fainted away. I rushed toward her, not thinking what I was doing. But Jacques was at her side before me. In stead, however, of showing the least jeal ousy, or putting himself in a passion, he grasped me warmly by the hand, and then looked tenderly at Marie, who now began to revive. “ Never fear, and keep up a good heart,” said he, in a strange kind of voice. You would never guess what he did, and perhaps will hardly believe when I tell you. Ordinarily a very temperate, steady man, he astonished the company by giv ing out that he intended to throw a little life into the fete. On this he ordered wine and cider, and lastly a plentiful supply of brandy. In a very little time he was helplessly drunk, or at least pretended to he so. As the evening wore on, he got from had to worse, insulted and quarrelled with the men, and fairly disgusted the women. The village was in an uproar, and there was not a soul who did not speak in strong terms of the disgraceful con duct of Jacqm s Atthcea nestentreaty of the worthy fellow, we kept our coun sel, and accordingly the new marriage was at onee broken off. The rest of my story you know*almost as well as myself. You see my life from day to day. You can picture to yourself my sorrow and my unhappy condition. You can see how little she has changed. And yet we can never he more to one another than we are now. Never. Never ! We are married, and yet we are not. We are separated, alas, here on earth, but we must be united in heaven. Think of the years that have passed, and think how happy we might have been, and what a thread there was between our present existence and the life we long to lead. God’s will be done ! Poor Pierre here let his head fall into his hands, and wept in silence. How could I comfort the poor fellow ? It was not the kind of grief that needed consolation, and so l let him weep on. All at once a breeze sprung up and filled the sails. Pierre immediately roused himself, hut soon relapsed into his accus tomed calm quiet manner. Both the other sailors now came on deck, the nets were thrown over, and the business of the night began. chatter vi. Three years afterward, by the merest accident in the world, I happened to re turn to my favorite little village. There was evidently some excitement going on, and as I chanced to recognize my old friend, Father Hermann, I went up and renewed our acquaintance. “ What is the matter?” said he ; “why, you do not mean to say you don’t know ?” “ Not in the least.” “ Why your old friend Alphonsine has been dead six months.” “ I really don’t* see why the worthy in habitants of the village should rejoice at that,” said I. “ A great obstacle has been removed,” said the father; “ don’t you remember ?” “ Os course ; and what has followed V* “ The marriage of Pierre Prevost and Marie !” I was not long in accompanying Father Hermann to the cottage in which my old friends were receiving the warm congratu lations of their friends and neighbors. They recognized me at once, and in sisted that I should be present at the enter tainment which was to follow in the course of the day. Os course, I accepted the in vitation. I never remember having en joyed myself so much, and am quite cer tain that I spoke from my heart when I proposed, in my very best French, the healths of la belle Marie and Pierre Prevost. [For the Banner of the South.] A MEMORY. Sing that sweet melody again, I heard it once In happier hour*: It falls upon my weary brain Like breath of summer flowers. It brings before my pensive mind. The hallowed scenes of other years. W T hen life was one long day of joy. Bright, unalloyed with tears. The blooming hawthorn scents the air. The lark’s loud song is in the sky, Gatli’ring the sweets from balmy flowers. The bee hums merry by. Again 1 hear my Mary's voice, * Her matchless form I see once more. Again her witching glance of love Enchants me as of yore. Her small, white hand is clasped in mine, Her fragrant breath is on my cheek, Wrapt in a trance of thrilling joy, Our hearts too full to speak. Oh ? could such ecstacy but last, Such scenes of ravishing delight, Who would exchange this earth of our* For other worlds, though bright ? The song is hushed, its echoes die. Like fairy music in the air, Out of its spell, so full of joy, I wake to grief and care. fc. AtttftuUi, Ga., F(brtuiry, 1868. NORA AND JAMESY. A TOUCHING STORY. “To the memory of Patrick Connor this simpis stone was erected by his Fellow-Workmen.” Those words you may read any day upon a white slab in a cemetery not many miles from Now York ; but you might read thorn a hundred times without guess ing at the little tragedy they indicate, without knowing the humble romance which ended with the placing of that stone above the dust of one poor and humble man. In his shabby frieze jacket and mud laden brogans, he was scarcely an attrac tive object as he walked into Mr. Bawn’s great tin and hardware shop, one day and presented himself at the counter with an “I’ve been towld ye advertised for hands, yer honor.” “Fully supplied, my man,” said Mr. Bawn, not lifting his head from his ac count book. “I’d work faithful, sir, and take low wages till I could do betther, and I’d learn—l would that ” It was an Irish brogue, and Mr. Bawn always declared that he never would em ploy an incompetent hand. Yet the tone attracted him. He turned briskly and with his pen behind his ear, addressed the man, who was only one of the fifty who had answered his advertisement for four workmen that morning. “What makes you expect to learn faster than other folks—are you any smarter ? “I'll not say that,” said the man, “hut I’d be wishing to ; that 'ud make it easier.” “Are you used to the work ?*” “I’ve done a hit of it.” “Much ?” “No, yer honor. I’ll tell no lie. Tim O’Toole hadn’t the like of this place ; bin I know a bit about tins.” “You are too old for an apprentice, and you’d he in the way, I fear,” said Mr. Bawn, looking at the brawny arms and bright eyes that promised strength and in telligence “desides, I know your coun trymen —lazy, good-for-nothing fellows, who never do their best. No, I’ve been taken in by Irish hands before, and I won’t have another.” “The Virgin will have to be afther bringing ’em over in her two arms, then,” said the man despairingly, “for I’ve tramped all day for the last fortnight, and niver a job can I get. and that’s the last penny I have, yer honor, and it’s hut a half one.” As he spoke he spread his palm open with a half-penny upon it. “Bring whom over?” asked Mr. Bawn, arrested by the odd speech as lie turned upon his heel, and turned back again. “Jist Nora and Jamesy.” “Who are they ?” “The wan’s my wife, the other me child,” said the man. “0 1 masther, jist thry me. How'll I bring them over to me if no one will give me a job ? I want to be aiming, and the whole big city seems against it, and me with arms like thim.” He bared his arms to the shoulder as he spoke, and Mr. Bawn looked at them, and then at his face. “I’ll hire you for the next week,” he said, “and now as its noon, go down into the kitchen and tell the girl to get you your dinner —a hungry man can’t work.” And with an Irish blessing, the new hand obeyed, while Mr. Bawn, unty ing his apron, went up stairs to get his own meal. Suspicions as he was of the new hand’s integrity and ability, he was agreeably disappointed. Connor worked hard and actually learned fast. At the end of the week ho was the best workman in the shop. lie was a great talker, hut not fond of drink or wasting money. As his wages grew he hoarded every penny, and wore the same shabby clothes in which he had made his first appearance, “Beer costs money,” lie said one day, “and ivory cint I spind puts off the bring ing of Nora and Jamesy over ; and as for clothes, them I have must do me—better no coat to me back than no wife and boy by my fireside ; anyhow its’s slow work sating.” It was slow work, but he kept at it a 1 ! the same. Other men, thoughtless and full of fun, tried to make him drink— made a jest of his saving habits, coaxed him to accompany them to places of amusement, or to share their Sunday frolics. All in vain. Connor liked beer, like fun, liked companionship ; but he would not delay the long-looked-for bringing Nora over ; and was not “mane enough” to accept favors of others. He kept his way, a martyr to one great wish —living on littie, working at night, on any extra job by which he could earn a few shillings, by running errands in his noontide hours of rest, and talking to any one who would listen of his one great hope, and of Nora and little Jamesy. At first the men, who prided them selves on being all Americans, and on turning out the best work in the city, made a sort of butt of Connor, whose “wild Irish” ways and verdancy were in deed very laughable. But it won their hearts at last, and when, one day, mount ing his work-bench, he shook * his little bundle, wrapped in a red ’kerchief be fore their eyes, and shouted “Look, hoys, I’ve got the whole at last I I’m going to bring Nora and Jamesy over at last ! Whooroo! I have got it!” all felt a sympathy in his joy, and each grasped his great hand in cordial con gratulations. They parted in a merry mood, most of the men going to comfortable homes. But poor. Connor’s resting place was a poor lodging-house, where he shared a crazy garrett with four other men, and in the joy of his heart the poor fellow exhibit ed his handkerchief, witn his hard-earned savings tied up in a hard wad in the mid dle, before he put it under his pillow and fell asleep, When he awakened in the morning he found his treasure gone. Some villain, more contemptible than most had men are, had robbed him. At first Con nor could not believe it lost. He searched every corner of the room, shook his quilt and blankets, and trigged those about him to “quit joking and give it back.” But at last he realized the truth. “Is any man that bad it’s thaved from me ?” lie asked in a breathless way. “Boys, is any man that bad ?” And someone answered : “No doubt of it, Connor. Its sthole.” Then Connor put his head down on his hands, and lifted up his voice and wept. It was one of those sights which men never forget. It seemed more than he could hear, to have Nora and his child 'put, as he expressed it, months away from him again. But when he went to work that day it seemed to all who saw him that he had picked up a new’ determination, His hands were never idle. His face seem ed to say “I’ll have Nora with me yet.” At noon he scratched out a letter, hlotti and and strangely sera vied, telling Nora what had happened ; and those who ob served him noticed that he had no meat for his dinner. Indeed, from that mo ment he lived on bread, potatoes, and cold water, and worked as few men ever worked before. It grew to he the talk of the shop, and now', thatsymputhy wasex-